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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268597">obsidian boxes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/souhiyori/pseuds/souhiyori'>souhiyori</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hallucinations, Prison Dream, Ranboo's voice is in Dream's head, derealisation, kinda? its head voice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:01:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/souhiyori/pseuds/souhiyori</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After weeks in prison, he hears a familiar voice. There is no one around, just him and his notebooks in this wretched cell, but loud and clear, it talks to him, forcing him to look inside of himself and consider his emotions.</p><p>(or: in prison, dream starts hearing ranboo's voice in his head, much like how ranboo would hear dream's.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>219</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>obsidian boxes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: i started this a couple days after dream was first imprisoned in canon, and only just got round to finishing it, so there is a lil bit of inconsistency to canon lol but i tried to make it work! </p><p>there is some talk of self destructive behaviours, but nothing graphic, so pls keep that in mind!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>There is a room, way out of the way of everything and everyone, hidden from prying eyes and the general public. They don’t need to see it, don’t need to know. What is inside is unknown to all but one, all but two, all but a few.</p><p> </p><p>A room made of purple, darkness, surely pitch black if not for one wall of light. Obsidian walls. Floors. Ceilings. Building blocks thick and unyielding, soundproofed for obvious reason. There is no seeing in, no seeing out, unless you know how. You are not meant to know. There is no hope for those who have seen inside these walls.</p><p> </p><p>A room on the outskirts, behind other more innocent structures. Surrounded by water and sand. It sits in a place rarely traversed; people don’t come around here often. Far out, but not <em> too </em> far. The perfect spot for a place such as this. </p><p> </p><p>Even if you knew of its whereabouts, you’d not be able to get in. The way of the door is known by only one, you’d need to ask him for permission.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>There are two rooms, way out of the way from everything and everyone, hidden from prying eyes and the general public.</p><p> </p><p>Made of the same materials, in similar places but hundreds of blocks apart. Despite how comparable they may seem, their uses are different. These rooms were built for different reasons, for different people with different goals. They house different atmospheres, different emotions. Or they <em> did. </em> They were meant to. That may not be the truth anymore.</p><p> </p><p>One room is small, underground, only a few square blocks big. It’s hidden under the sand and gravel of a beach, behind what used to be L’Manberg. It’s construction was started and completed in less than a day, by one man alone, in the midst of panic and stress.</p><p> </p><p>Nailed on the walls are signs, written by it’s creator. Words of encouragement, reminders, warnings. Scrawled on scrap wood with drying out ink in fits of crying, words he tells himself, he wishes to believe, he must remember. A jukebox is embedded in the ground, it’s use only occasional as the room is usually a quiet place of solitude. Most times he wishes for silence, though sometimes he wishes for music, for soft melodies to seep into his brain and wash out the sound of more unpleasant noise. </p><p> </p><p>Built for him and him alone to go to when he needs to get away. He often needs to get away; it’s busy out there, loud, countries and factions of friends and enemies partying and fighting. It’s confusing. He’s confused. This room is for him to come to to recoup, to get his bearings and learn to breathe steady in the hectic humidity of the outside world. Once he is ready, he can leave.</p><p> </p><p>It started this way, but over time it grew rancid. The dark walls became less comforting and more terrifying, the quiet less calming and more eerie, the small space less cosy and more claustrophobic. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The other room is larger, just one small part of a massive building on the other side of the server. It’s placed on a platform atop of the ocean, behind the Badlands and the quartz mansion. It was mostly created by one man - though with the help of many others - and took over a month of hard labour to construct, full of focus and care. A colossal, complicated structure such as this could only have been built by the hands of one with immeasurable capability and knowledge, raw talent and smarts.</p><p> </p><p>The walls of this room are empty save for a single clock. Three obsidian walls, god knows how many layers thick, and one of lava, impossible to pass through no matter how hard you try. No one should try, it’s futile. A water basin, a lectern, a chest full of books, and a lamp is all the furnishing inside, leaving the space feeling empty, unfinished, cold despite the heat of the lava. This is not a place for comfort. There is no way to find comfort in a place like this; built for the purpose of being lonely and disconnected. There is no way out. </p><p> </p><p>Getting into this room means you’ve done it, you’ve fucked things up for yourself in a way near impossible to come back from. What must you do to be locked away? To be stolen from a society so full of criminals and tyrants? What wrongs must you have done to be the worst of them all? </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>A panic room.</p><p> </p><p>Pandora’s vault.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Inside each of these rooms sits a person. They sit on the hard black ground, knees to their chests with their arms around their legs, backs against the wall. They stare forward, into the light ahead of them; one a water doorway, one a lava death trap. They breathe in time with the sound of rushing liquid that fills their ears, hearts thudding dangerously quick in their aching rib cages.</p><p> </p><p>One feels tiny, like his existence is nothing, an ant in a coffin, like the walls are miles apart and he couldn’t reach the door if he tried. He’s never felt small before; always too big for his environment, too tall and clumsy to fit into the world around him.</p><p> </p><p>The other feels large, too large, like the walls are closing in on him, like his room is shrinking around him. He curls up as small as he can, shoulders hurting from hugging his knees so tight. The shoddily cut out eye holes on his mask feel like they're shrinking, too, setting a vignette around his already blurred vision. When he takes the mask off, the vignette is still there.</p><p> </p><p>On the floor in front of both of them sits an open book. In one book, the open page is empty, save for a small smiling face in the corner. In the other, the pages are full, scribbles of drawings that make no sense, doodles of friends and things he misses, words in handwriting barely legible. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>A memory book. A distraction technique. One used to remember things, one used to forget.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He knows a lot about this prison; he’d asked for it to be built, after all. He’d paid an ungodly amount of money for this. He spent hours designing with the builder, going over the ins and outs to make sure there was no way that anyone could escape. He knows how this works. He knows where he is. He knows this is hopeless. These walls of black and orange are all he can see until he either dies, or somehow they decide he’s paid for his sins.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he can ever pay for his sins, not in their eyes. Maybe not even in his own.</p><p> </p><p>But he knows he has done the right thing. He’s in the right. What is right isn’t always what is moral. He will never, ever let those <em> children</em>, let his friends, let anyone tell him that he is wrong. He can’t be wrong, not when he’s given up so much. Not when he’s lost everything. He had to do what he did.</p><p> </p><p>He had to lose everything, to gain everything.</p><p> </p><p>When you sacrifice your belongings, your relationships, your social status, all for one thing, what do you become? You become a God, a king, powerful. Unstoppable. When you throw away everything you are to accomplish one goal, you are brave. You are strong. You are in control of yourself, and of those that disagree. You have achieved so much. You have done what most could never even consider.</p><p> </p><p>But when you don’t accomplish that goal, when everything you’ve worked towards crumbles around you just as you’re nearing the finish line, what are you then? What are you when you’ve given up everything you had, everything you needed, everything you were? What are you when the thing you worked so hard for is no longer in reach? Was it ever <em>truly</em> in reach, or were you just deluding yourself? What do you become, when you were sure you had nothing left to lose, but you still manage to lose some more?</p><p> </p><p>Nothing. Empty. Tired. </p><p> </p><p>There is no mirror to see the purple bags under his sockets, the red bloodshot of his eye whites, the dark brown of his greasy hair roots. He doesn’t need one to see the black of grime under his fingernails, the pink soreness of his hands from his firm grip on a pen, the dirty grey of his socks. He doesn’t care how he looks, never did, but least of all right now. The prison guard comes to give him food, but who cares if he sees him like this? They were friends once. Close friends. This guard has seen him in worse shape than this.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t look at the guard when he enters with his meal. He doesn’t care about being seen, but meeting eyes with him is too much right now. Too much forever, probably.</p><p> </p><p>Raw potatoes on a plate are left next to him. He’s starving, body exhausted, but he doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t even glance in its direction. He hardly feels the protest in his body, too overcome by sheer nothingness. Too numb to feel anything. What more is hunger to an already empty body?</p><p> </p><p>When you lose everything you want, you don’t care about losing what you don’t. If you don’t even want yourself, then what is there to want anymore?</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Buried underground, inside a small obsidian box, a man looks down at a book. He looks down at the eerie smiling face drawn on the page, and for the first time in a long time, he hears nothing.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>On the other side of this land, inside a cell of obsidian and blackstone, a man looks down at a book. He looks down at a page full of doodles. Trees and flames, houses and explosions, people and weapons. A small, wobbly crown is sketched on the bottom right of the page, with three uneven circles drawn inside. He doesn’t know why he drew this, much like he doesn’t know why he drew most of the things on these pages. They just come to him. He looks at the crown, and for the first time, hears a voice.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Uncomfortable, isn’t it? </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He blinks his bleary eyes, and looks left to right. His vision still isn’t clear, but his room is as empty as it’s always been. His gaze flits back down to the page, darting across his scribbles. Fire, animals, records, wings, music notes, mountains, flowers. </p><p> </p><p>The crown.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Makes sense. You didn’t want this place to be comfortable. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s no one around, he’s alone, but someone is here. He recognises this voice. The prison is sound proof, all of it, there’s no way anyone should be able to talk to him right now. Is someone on the other side of the lava? No, they sound too close, like they’re talking to him through headphones he isn’t wearing.</p><p> </p><p>“It… could be worse…” He speaks, slow and quiet, unsure. It hurts his throat, he sounds pathetic. He hasn’t said a word out loud since a certain old friend of his came and visited him a few days ago. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It could always be worse. That doesn’t mean it’s not bad. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure what they mean. He knows this is bad. He knows he’s doing crappy. He knows it’s all gone to shit. His bones ache from his position, from having no comfortable way to situate himself. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You should’ve designed this place to have carpet flooring. If it’s over the obsidian, it wouldn’t be making the place any less secure. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Kinda late for that now, though. I don’t think Sam would be open to renovations. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A small shiver runs through him, up his spine and settling in a horrible tingle at the base of his neck. “Don’t…”</p><p> </p><p>There is silence, and he thinks that maybe whoever it is is gone. Thinks that maybe he was just hearing things. Maybe he’s dreaming. When was the last time he slept? He hasn’t checked the clock since the last time someone visited him, doesn’t want to touch it now that his old friend has touched it, too. He doesn’t know why the thought makes him feel sick.</p><p> </p><p>It comes back, startling him.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> You don’t like thinking of his name, do you? </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Of course he doesn’t, that seems obvious. Why would he want to think of the person who brought him here? Why would he want to think of their name, of what that name meant to him, of what they did together? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How do you think Sam would feel, knowing you can’t even bear to hear his name even in your head? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure. The guard is probably disgusted with him, hates him and his actions. They aren’t friends anymore. He probably does the same; to him, maybe he is just ‘<em> the prisoner </em>’.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You already don’t look at him when he comes in here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You don’t have to, it’s just a little strange. Why?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He ignores them. “Where are you?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. The rushing of the lava ahead of him is the only sound, loud but after so long, it has turned to white noise in his brain, he hardly hears it. He wants to touch it, to feel something other than nothingness on his body. He stays where he is, but reaches out an arm, long fingers pointed toward the bright hot orange. He’s way too far to reach, but he imagines it rushing over his hand. It’d hurt, for sure, but what would the texture be like? How long would it hurt for before he felt nothing?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sam wouldn’t be happy with you if you did that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He grits his teeth, and pulls his arm back in to himself.</p><p> </p><p>“I said don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’d hurt. He can’t hear you from in here, so you’d have to wait with a wound for hours until he next checks up on you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The voice is deep, deeper than his own usual inner monologue. Not exactly monotonous, but low and steady. Careful. It vibrates his skull, too loud yet somehow too quiet at the same time. It feels so close, like someone is talking directly into his ear, yet he still feels himself straining to understand their words.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s kind, though. Sam would patch you up. I don’t think he would leave you in pain, no matter what you’ve done. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Stop it. Stop- stop saying it.” His own voice wobbles the slightest bit. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What? ‘Sam’? You really can’t handle hearing his name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He says nothing. The voice tuts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not just Sam, is it? It’s everyone? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“No. It’s fine. Just- stop talking.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence fills the room again, and he sighs. Tired eyes slip shut, chin resting on his knees as he tries to move on from his thoughts. It’s hard, when there's nothing else to think of, to not have your mind stick on the one thing that is there. He doesn’t understand who this is, how they’re here, if they're even here at all. Does he need to? Does it even matter? </p><p> </p><p>When he’d first got here, he’d spoken with the guard multiple times a day. He would make happy conversation as he brought him food, would burn his clock just to say hey, would yell as loud as he could through the lava to ask about his day. The guard was hesitant, stern, cold. Nothing like the friend he used to joke with, the friend he built this hell with.</p><p> </p><p>He’d stopped speaking to the guard the day of his last visit. He hasn’t tried burning his clock since then, either.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking with the child, his first visitor, had been strange. He hadn’t been in long at that point, but if anything those first few days were the worst. Getting used to his environment, to isolation.  The child had made little jokes at him, asked him things, but the atmosphere had been...awkward. Awkward in a way that was entirely unlike the two of them. No matter if they were on the same or opposite sides, they had always bounced off of each other in a natural, chaotic fashion. </p><p> </p><p>He’d told him to write him some books. Said that he would come back in a few days, to check on him. The books had been written, despite their stupid subject matters. But the kid has yet to return.</p><p> </p><p>When an old friend stopped by, he wasn’t sure what to think. After only speaking with the guard for however long he’s been here, he had felt a sort of relief that came with seeing a new familiar face. As the lava cleared and he spotted the black cloak and bright white eyes from across the way, something warm bloomed inside of him, hot and sticky and uncomfortable, but <em> something. </em></p><p> </p><p>He had been kind, as kind as ever, just like how he remembered him. It had been a while since they had spoken even prior to his imprisonment; times had changed, the world leading them down different paths. He was the same, but he felt something off. Something felt wrong. Perhaps it was the lighting, or the emotions muddying his view, but maybe his hood sat a little lower on his head, shadowing his eyes. Maybe his dark hair was a little shaggier than usual. Maybe the red accents on his clothes looked a little faded, less saturated. Maybe he was skirting around conversation just a little too skittishly. </p><p> </p><p>Talking to people is nice. He misses talking to people. Whether the conversations were friendly chats, or bitter arguments, it’s better than silence.</p><p> </p><p>Someone else was meant to come visit the same day that he had his last visitor. The guard had said that morning that two people had scheduled visits, one for mid day, and one for late afternoon. He hadn’t said their names.</p><p> </p><p>Only one person came. He didn’t ask who the other person was meant to be.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe it was supposed to be Tommy? He said he would come back, didn’t he? I wonder where he is. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Heat rushes through his stomach, up his arms, numbing his fingertips. He thought the voice was gone. It hurts, dull, weakening already weak bones. A flash of yellow, of blue, of red and white scorches his eyes for a split second. His mouth is dry, lips chapped as he licks over them.</p><p> </p><p>“What part of <em> ‘stop’ </em> do you not get?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You can’t even bear to hear his name, either? Tommy? That’s rich, coming from you. I bet he feels the same hearing yours. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He shifts his thumb to pull down on his pointer finger, cracking his knuckle. The noise is gross, loud. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care what he feels about my name.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What about Bad? How does that name make you feel? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What do you care?” It hurts a little less, but images of bright red and jet black, piercing white and obnoxious teal flood his vision until he has to shut his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You said to them you cut off all attachment. That you don’t care about anything anymore. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I did. I don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Then why does it hurt? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t.” A lie.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do you remember why you’re here? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>An elevator, one he made himself, took him up to the surface. Below stood almost everyone, watching as three of his closest friends grabbed him and held him still. They had cheered. They had rejoiced. They had watched with sparkling eyes and hopeful smiles as he was torn from what was meant to be his reality. Torn from the things he worked so hard for.</p><p> </p><p>They smiled as he was torn apart.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you sure you don’t care? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care.” Quiet.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why not? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Because,” A deep breath. “I can’t care. Look what caring does to people.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What does it do? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“It…”</p><p> </p><p>Fighting. Crying. Theft and vandalism. You see your loved ones get hurt, you hurt yourself trying to save them. You form attachments to people, places, things. You fall apart trying to keep them together. For every thing that you love, every thing that you care about, you give yourself one more thing to get hurt over. You give yourself one more thing to lose. You give other people the power to break you.</p><p> </p><p>“It ruins people.”</p><p> </p><p>If you care about yourself, then you cannot care for others. You cannot care for your belongings, for your home, for the emotions of those around you. If you don’t want them to have the power to break you, you have to break yourself first.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do you really believe that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” The truth.</p><p> </p><p>A beat of silence.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tommy and Tubbo. They care about each other, and they won. They wouldn’t have won if they didn’t care for each other, or if they didn’t care about their home. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He scoffs. “They wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place if they didn’t care.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Neither would you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Neither would I.”</p><p> </p><p>He stretches his arms up above his head, rolling his wrists and listening to them crack. His muscles ache badly, and he wants nothing more than a proper bed to sleep in. He brings his hands down, palms to his forehead and tangling his fingers in sweaty hair. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Punz betrayed you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>White, gold, blue. Bright laughter and rude quips. </p><p> </p><p>“Stop saying it.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Puffy, too. She gave Tommy food. Can you believe it? Puffy?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Softness. Soft hair, soft voice, soft colours. Welcoming and kind.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Antfrost was there. Callahan. They all came. They all saw you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Old times. Good times. Back when things were simple. Back when there were only a few. Back when they were the happy family he wishes they still were.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up.” The fingers in his hair grip a little tighter.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Did you hear what Ponk said? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you? I’ll fucking throw you in that lava.”</p><p> </p><p>He is ignored.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Lock him up!’, he said. Ponk said that. He was excited to see you go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His grip tightens. His scalp hurts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Stop saying you don’t care. You may have convinced them, but you can’t convince me. You can't convince yourself.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> don’t </em>care. What is not clicking?”</p><p> </p><p>A sigh, close enough he almost feels it on the back of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You actually think you’ve convinced yourself? You actually think that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He remembers the purple in front of him opening up, particles wafting through the air. He remembers a voice, one he used to laugh along with. He remembers everyone stepping through, all so worried, so concerned. But not for him. No, <em> because </em> of him.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers them coming. The way they were fully armed and protected. The way they were ready to kill him right there in his own space.</p><p> </p><p>“If I cared, then what was I doing?” He feels a few strands snap in his fingers. “What the fuck have I been doing? You think someone with <em> any </em> attachment could do what I did?”</p><p> </p><p>His voice is shaking. His eyes sting. He swallows the lump in his throat and chews at the inside of his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was there? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t make me think.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was there? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t. Don’t make me.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who came? Who came to their aid instead of yours? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He tastes blood. “Everyone. Nearly everyone.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Putting so much time, effort, tears into something, just to have it all crash down around you really is something. It hurts, it stings, it feels like a knife to the chest. It’s bad when that happens on the outside, but on the inside, when the walls you build in your mind begin crumbling, when the things you’ve forced yourself to believe to be true start to fade, that’s it. What can you do? </p><p> </p><p>He did it. They’re wrong. He’s strong willed. He doesn’t need people, things, places to care about. He doesn’t need to be cared for in return. </p><p> </p><p>Looking past a child's shoulder, he sees them emerge from the magic. From the frame he created to keep himself and his plans safe.</p><p> </p><p>“Jack. Hbomb. Niki.” He starts, barely a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who else? There was more than that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Sam. Bad… Eret. Even Eret...”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Good, good, you’re getting there. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A deep breath. “Ant. Puffy. C-” He chokes on his own breath, coughing. It hurts. He feels like he’s going to be sick despite his empty stomach. “Callahan. Ponk.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. It feels so, so loud. His cheeks are wet, and when he opens his eyes he watches tiny patches on his shirt turn dark, tears dripping onto the fabric.</p><p> </p><p>He recalls their voices.<em> ‘You fucked up.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>“Quackity.”</p><p> </p><p>Another one. ‘<em> You should’ve paid me more.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>“Punz.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Almost there. Your memory is pretty good. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>His hands fall from his head, and opening his teary eyes he sees a few thin strands of hair ripped out between his fingers. He drags the back of a hand across his wet cheeks, sniffing. This is bullshit. Who do they think they are? Who do they think he is? It means nothing to him. They all mean nothing to him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There was another, wasn’t there?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“No. That’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on, help me out, my memory isn’t as good as yours. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why not? If you don’t care, then you wouldn’t mind, right? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They had all come through at once, and it’d taken him aback. Why? How? Punz had lead them here, for what reason? He was one of the most loyal people in his life, why now had he decided to side with some random child? With some strangers with whom he had no history?</p><p> </p><p>The teenagers had ran off, hiding behind the group. He heard them yelling, whooping at each other. He watched as they took back their prized possessions from the alters he had made to taunt them with. Anger. He stepped forward.</p><p> </p><p>An unexpected hit. Fire aspect. He looked up to see who had done it. <em>  ‘Get away from them.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>That voice, level and stern. He knew it like he knew his own. Those eyes, that armour, that stance, he knew it all too well. Even if he hadn’t been hit, he would’ve stumbled back anyway. Those familiar, usually friendly eyes looked through him like he was nothing. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t make me.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head, hands over his ears as if that’ll stop it. “Please.” </p><p> </p><p>The group surged forward, a barrier between him and his captives. He had backed up, into the hallway of empty picture frames and signs. He had raised his weapon to keep distance between them. </p><p> </p><p>Someone walked forward, out of the group, into the hall with him. He stood firm, tall and strong in a way he had never seen of this man prior. He stepped ahead of everyone. He made himself known. He made sure he was visible. <em> ‘There’s nowhere to run.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>Then later, after being cased in obsidian at the other end of the room, after everyone had decided they would take him away to where he now resides, he remembers his voice. Quiet, muffled through his cage, he heard it. Broken disbelief, betrayal. <em> ‘Wait… Beckerson?’ </em></p><p> </p><p>The way his voice cracked. The way he remembers it now, it’s like it cracks something in him, too. Maybe it cracked him back then. He doesn’t remember.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“A friend.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They were all your friends, at one point or another. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“My best friend.”</p><p> </p><p>On the elevator up, he had been there with them. Four of them, together, all once friends. Himself, Sam, Bad, and<em> him </em>. He doesn’t know if any of them even talk to each other anymore. So much has changed. Too much has changed. </p><p> </p><p>He wants it back. He wants his old life back. He wants this world the way it used to be.</p><p> </p><p>He had been escorted by three ex friends to this sad excuse for a home. To this inescapable hell on earth. None of them had said a word to him the whole time. There was nothing to say, or maybe there was too much. As they approached the entrance portal, Sam had told the others that this was as far as they could go.</p><p> </p><p>White eyes had blinked, understanding, turning away. Dark eyes had been wide, glassy, wet. He had stared into those eyes for as long as he could, maybe seconds, maybe minutes, until a hand on his shoulder dragged him through the portal. He didn’t take his gaze off of him until the purple particles blurred his eyes and he was in a different room.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He seemed sad.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“He was.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Did he tell you he was upset? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“No.” He swallows again. The lump won’t go away. “He wanted to cry. I could see he was holding it back.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you gonna say his name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“No.” He repeats. He can’t. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think it’d come out.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You started this with him, right? It was you and him against the world. The two of you, and one more friend, too. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It must’ve been nice, to be the first. In a world without sides. In a place without conflict. A happy family? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“A happy family.” A pause. “It can still be like that. For them.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But not for you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He picks at his already bitten down nails. “No. Maybe I <em> could’ve </em> been a part of it, but not anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you okay with that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before, when it was just him, them, and their friends, he had been happy. He had felt fulfilled. They had everything they needed. Sure, things were a little mundane, they lived simple lives, but it was peaceful. </p><p> </p><p>When the others joined, it had been fun. They got into squabbles, and it felt refreshing to have something to fight for. To have something to do. To wake up and go out and find some new shit to yell about.</p><p> </p><p>It had gone too far. Quickly it had divulged from minor fights between people to all out wars between factions. The comfortable, quiet life he once had was nowhere to be found, gone with the same wind that blew the flag of the people that were trying to destroy him.</p><p> </p><p>When was the last time they were able to just be together? When was the last time they hung out in the community house? When was the last time they did stuff, just because? Starting to build structures, only to never finish them? Stealing non-valuables from houses nearby? Minor vandalism of peoples front yards? Graffiti signs on their property? </p><p> </p><p>Now it was all theft, true robbery. Burning of possessions and homes. Blowing up land. All out fighting, war even. Blazing arrows across pits down to bedrock, aiming for enemies he doesn’t remember making. </p><p> </p><p>He remembers the first time it had gone further. He remembers approaching the tall black walls of a young L’Manberg, chaos glinting through his eyes. He remembers tossing his best friend, his sidekick, a flint and steel. He remembers watching him take off through the forest, setting leaves alight with an almost childish excitement. He remembers watching as they burned it all down, as the trees were ignited, as green turned to orange, turned to nothing. He remembers how his palm stung even through his gloves at the enthusiastic high five he received as the two of them fled the scene.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers the brief flicker of panic through his chest at his friends wide grin. At the way this destruction seemed to come all too naturally to him. How he didn’t even flinch when the flames from his lighter pricked his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>That same panic had flashed over him in his hidden building in the mountains. When he had been struck with that fire aspect sword.</p><p> </p><p>A stupid child’s voice, the bane of his existence, mutters through his brain. Giggly and curious, as if his pain was funny to him. <em> ‘Who do you miss the most? If I were you, I would miss-’ </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Sapnap…” </p><p> </p><p>It tastes disgusting in his mouth, his tongue heavy, jaw numb. It makes him feel nauseous, bitter, angry. It tastes like murky brown, like a horrible mix of beautiful colours, like everything good combined into something he can’t stand. Months ago, when he said that name, he would taste something light, something sweet, something soft. Warm and sugary, like a cake maybe, or a hot drink. Sapnap used to taste like comfort, like familiarity. </p><p> </p><p>Now he tastes like disappointment. Like hostility and guilt. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There you go. Good.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The voice praising him shouldn’t calm him, shouldn’t help settle his stomach, not when it is the reason it is churning in the first place. It shouldn’t but it does, if only slightly. He lets out a breath, long and slow. The voice is low, gentle. Kind. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re…”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was the other one?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dark brown, hair and eyes. Pale white, skin and glasses. Blue clothes. Purple veins. Straight teeth. Any calm is gone, replaced with weighty, ugly dread.</p><p> </p><p>“You know. <em> You </em> would know.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I would? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You would. I know what you did.” He swallows, thinking of charred wood and rotting mushroom. “You’re why he’s never around.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why me? I’ve never even spoken to him before. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t play dumb with me.” Annoyance bubbles despite knowing there is no point.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t recall, sorry. Help me remember? </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>They had built the community house together, the three of them. It was hideous at first, they all knew it, and it had taken some time for it to look presentable. It was all they had for a while. Their shared base. The midpoint on the map. Their home. Everything they had they shared, everything they did, they did it together. </p><p> </p><p>Brick, wood, glass, water. A bright white beacon. Fish lived in the tank above the building, in the water below and all around. Animals; cows, sheep, pigs, all in little pens. Farmland around the back, growing carrots and wheat. The inside of the house was full of chests, beds, a spiral staircase to the roof. Chests where anyone could take or leave whatever they want. Beds anyone could sleep in when they needed to. Stairs anyone could climb if they wanted to see a pretty view of the land around them.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers standing on that roof with him, looking out over the water and surrounding area. He remembers play fights on the bridge that connected the building to the earth, jumping into the water and sparring. He remembers long days, hours of walking far beyond the horizon together, gathering supplies. Coming back just as the sun sets, and sitting on the wood walkway, feet in the water.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Brown eyes had looked at him quizzically, bewildered as they stood in front of the castle. Eret’s castle. <em> ‘What just happened?’ </em>  Lead up the plank path, under the arches, into stone. <em> ‘Wait, why is this happening?’ </em>  A crown atop Eret’s head, an order for it to be removed. Defiance. Confusion. </p><p> </p><p>A king thrown from his castle. A disengaged citizen as next in the chain of command.</p><p> </p><p>Curious footsteps through the room, leading up to a golden throne. A giddy smile, unserious and playful, like this is funny. Like being crowned royalty is a joke. <em> ‘I’m the- I’m the new king?’ </em>An infectious expression, a contagious laugh. He so easily could’ve forgotten the war that was about to take place if he could just continue laughing with him, if he could watch him tour this palace of empty rooms and high ceilings.</p><p> </p><p>He had stripped that kingship from him not long after. It wasn’t safe, it wasn’t right, all he’d done is put him in danger. That stupid, brat of a child just doesn’t know when to quit. He doesn’t mind fighting the kid, but when he’s griefing his uninvolved friends home, he feels like he has to step in. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“You burnt his house down. You and Tommy.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who’s house? That sad little shack?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t have had to dethrone him if it wasn’t for you.” He’s projecting. He was going to do it anyway; that wasn’t the only time he had been attacked while he had the crown. He just needs someone to blame.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>A conversation on a broken path through the server, shoddily built houses and towers littered all around. A bench and a jukebox overlooking the sunset. It hadn’t meant to be a big deal, just a conversation between friends, but he’d been more difficult than he had expected. Taken it way worse than he thought he would. A crowd had gathered around them.</p><p> </p><p>They didn’t have the context, didn’t care to listen to his explanations, all too ready to make him the bad guy. Sapnap had pushed himself between them, holding up his weapon. <em> ‘Sapnap, stop pointing the stupid bow at me.’ ‘No.’ </em> It was idiotic, really. They were friends, they <em> are </em> friends. Why did they want to make him their villain so badly? </p><p> </p><p>A step forward taken by a quiet, hurt man. Right in front of him, he saw those cheeks painted red with distress, eyes shining and wet. <em> ‘Just say- just say you hate me.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>“George-” A cut off word, throat closing around him. A stuttered breath. <em> ‘No, George, George, I care about you.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>It’s acidic on his tongue, against his cheeks. His eyes water. It tastes thin, unwelcome, spoiled, like it had been left out to collect dirt and disease. He wished he could spit it out, wishes he could brush his teeth and it would remove it. George used to taste like home. That name used to be gentle yet sharp, like a pretty knife against his tongue that would never press down. He tasted like fruit, simple and fresh, like lemongrass and apple juice. Togetherness and nostalgia. George used to taste genuine. Fond.</p><p> </p><p>Now all he tastes is regret. Distance and remorse.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It hurts, doesn’t it? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No point in denying what is clear to see. “Yeah. It fucking stings.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So you accept that you care about them again? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I never stopped.” </p><p> </p><p> He picks up the notebook, flitting his eyes over the nonsensical doodles and chicken scratch. Wobbly lines and scribbled words, light at first, but gradually becoming deep impressions on the pages as his pen started to run dry and his patience waned thin. Near the top is a crudely drawn flag. He thinks of music and walls, secrets and youth.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s your fault. You burned down George’s house.” He wants to scream at the voice. He wants someone to yell at, someone to fight, someone to bear his burdens.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You were already drifting apart by then. You know that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You hurt George.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t even know. He thinks it was just Tommy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A pause. He licks his cracking lips. “Tommy took the fall for you. You’re why he was exiled. He went through shit.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you shifting the blame off of yourself for what you did to him? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He grits his teeth. “Don’t you feel even remotely bad? Tommy got hurt. You betrayed Tubbo. You hurt them all, too.”</p><p> </p><p>His ears are ringing. He can’t tell if he’s shouting or if his throat is just sore from underuse up until now, but his voice is hoarse.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you even here? Go the fuck away, you’re pissing me off.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t know, why am I here? Ask yourself that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Another look around shows no one. Still it is just him and those inky walls, that rumbling lava. </p><p> </p><p>“How’d you get in?” He knows there is no one here. He knows there is no way he could get here. He knows he’s alone, but he asks anyway.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on, you know I’m not real. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was obvious, really. Or, it should’ve been. He knew they weren’t here with him, but either way he is snapped back into reality. He blinks, and his vision clouds with water. Another blink. The contents of the page look fuzzy. One more and it’s clear again, and he watches as a teardrop falls onto the paper, right above the deep drawing of the crown. Why him?</p><p> </p><p>“Why him?”</p><p> </p><p>The water drips down, slowly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ask yourself that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The voice repeats itself. He might understand, somewhere in there, why<em> his </em> voice is the one his mind has chosen. </p><p> </p><p>The voice of a quiet man. A mysterious, yet open being, all long legs and smooth tone, kind gaze and straightforward personality. A man you can’t bring yourself to hate. A man ready to help out everyone and anyone. Someone chill, someone fun, someone so easy to get along with that you may accidentally let secrets slip. But, it’s okay. He wouldn’t remember them anyway.</p><p> </p><p>When had he appeared, and from where? He doesn’t know, none of them know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Or maybe it matters more than they think.</p><p> </p><p>Water reaches ink.</p><p> </p><p>He who is friends with everyone, becomes a voice in his head. The head of a man who is friends with no one. Their morals and goals are opposite, but maybe they aren’t. What does he want? What do either of them want? Do either of them even know?</p><p> </p><p>He had heard their arguments, had read his book. People. Is he a passionate optimist, or just stupid? Perhaps he is too new to this world to know that you don’t get to choose people here. You don’t get to choose your home. You don’t even get to choose your belongings. You don’t get to choose <em> anything </em>. Everything belongs to everyone and no one at the same time.</p><p> </p><p>Anything you own will be stolen. Structures you build will be knocked down. Secrets you keep will be let slip. Friends you make will be murdered. No one is safe, the weak and the strong are all doomed to this fate. </p><p> </p><p>He was a breath of fresh air; everyone had been split, infighting and petty squabbles. They tore themselves into sides, seeing only themselves as good with everyone else as the enemy. He, though, wanted to choose everyone. He bore no allegiance to one party, just helped who he wanted to. He speaks of <em>‘people, not sides’</em>, but loyalty to all is loyalty to none.</p><p> </p><p>The environment from which he came is unknown, but he's clearly not used to this sort of conflict. Easily overwhelmed, quick to panic, it is obvious that he is not from a place where this was the norm. His world views are yet to be skewed into those of everyone else here. He might be able to bring about some sort of change.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this some screwed up way of telling me to ‘choose people’, or whatever?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maybe something like that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Everything I do is for them. I did choose people.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you forgetting that you are a person? Why don’t you get a happy ending in your own story? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Black ink starts to bleed, blurring the pointed edges of the drawing. </p><p> </p><p>“I do. I was supposed to.” His jaw hurts from grinding his teeth without realising. “I was going to bring it back, make this place mine again.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And, what, leave them alone? Just be a God while you watch everyone else being happy? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Or something.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Right…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the only way they could be happy again.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Have you considered, maybe that wouldn’t make them happy? That maybe they want you to be a part of their happiness, too? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He brings a finger to the page, dabbing lightly at the tear stain. The drawing smudges, watery ink wetting his finger. He doesn’t care what they think they want. He knows what’s best for them. He knows what’s best for himself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When are you going to stop trying to kid yourself into thinking you don’t care? When are you going to stop pretending you don’t wish you could be a part of their lives? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A small drawing of a dog in a little checkered scarf. If anyone else were looking, they’d barely be able to make out what his nonsensical doodles were meant to be. To him, though, these make sense. They have meanings he wishes they didn’t. A little halo floats above its fluffy ears.</p><p> </p><p>White eyes, black cloak, red accents. He feels himself snapping.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to care. I don’t want <em> them </em>to care. It’d be easier for all of us if we just let go of each other.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You know you can’t do that. You’re too human to become God. You’ll never fully be able to let go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A kind smile despite sharp fangs. A gentle gaze despite blank, empty eye whites. He feels lightheaded.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>How </em> am I meant to let go, when they won’t let me?!” His voice reverberates off of the walls, hitting heavy on his own ears. It hurts, his throat, his eardrums, his head. “He’s too…”</p><p> </p><p>Friendly? Familiar? Bad had been so reassuring. There was something off, he could tell, something very wrong, but despite it all… Bad had tried his best to comfort him. He had said he wanted to become a prison guard. He said that once he was one, he would visit him every day. He said he would get Sapnap and George to visit.</p><p> </p><p>Sapnap and George. Did he really want them to visit? Could he really face them? Deep down, he wants them. He misses them more than anything. He wants to see them, to hug them, to cry on their shoulders, to run away with them. But in reality, he knows it is too late for that.</p><p> </p><p>Or is it?</p><p> </p><p>He had seen Sapnap’s confusion, the way he hesitated before talking about anything. They had always stuck together. Sapnap had been openly unsure as of late, up until the day of the imprisonment, where he had stood firmly against him for the first time. If that was the line, was it possible to go back?</p><p> </p><p>When was the last time he had seen George? When was the last time <em> anyone </em> had seen him, for that matter? Did he even know what was going on? Was he aware of his sentence, what he had done, the extent of his sins? There was no sure way to know what George’s current opinion of him was, though it's safe to assume it isn’t good. </p><p> </p><p>It sounds arrogant as hell, but he knows that Sapnap is lost without him. The only times they had been on opposite sides were in the early days, when fights were petty and held no true weight. Other than that, he could always count on Sapnap being right behind him, armoured up and weapon in hand. What was he doing now? Who was he following now that everyone had split off on different paths? George must be lost, too. He’s alone, right? Off god knows where, doing god knows what. That’s a little concerning, he thinks, George had never been too good when left on his own.</p><p> </p><p>They may hate him now, but there is something about them that keeps pulling him back, something of theirs that has wrapped around his heart and fingers, tugging at him until he will inevitably stumble back home.</p><p> </p><p>Childish scribbles of mushrooms, of fish, of campfires. A wonky smiley face. Ugly sunglasses. A derpy looking panda bear.</p><p> </p><p>No matter how hard he’s tried to erase it, to erase them, he still thinks of them as home.</p><p> </p><p>“Why won’t they let me go?”</p><p> </p><p>He wants to hate them. He wants to have the same disgust for them that he knows they do for him. <em> He </em> did this. <em> He </em> pushed them away. <em> He </em> started the rift, created the crack in the ground that opened up the ravine of distance between them. This was his own doing, yet he was the one having trouble with his emotions.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You can try and hate them all you want. You know you can’t. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His blood feels like it’s boiling in his veins. He can. He <em> can. </em> He closes his eyes, and thinks of every little thing that pisses him off about them.</p><p> </p><p>Sapnap is too quick to rile up. He gets himself into stupid fights for no reason, he’s stubborn, and he has a habit of not giving his all where it matters and instead putting his efforts into inconsequential shit. He’d broken peoples things, stolen, fought against nearly everyone over the pettiest of things. He’d side switched on Tommy over and over, he’d gone around slaughtering peoples pets, he’d just been a general nuisance. </p><p> </p><p>George is irritating to be around. He’s a naïve, lazy, uncaring little wimp. A yes man, just following anything he’s told to do. No clear moral compass, no strong opinions on anything, taking nothing seriously, not even war. A coward who expected others to do things for him. He’d come <em> whining </em> after his house had been griefed, <em> whined </em> when he couldn’t be bothered to go gather his own supplies, <em> whined </em> after being dethroned. </p><p> </p><p>Even in the times where their friendship was closest, the two of them were constantly at each other's throats. It was annoying, acting almost like their babysitter every day. They couldn’t do anything without arguing, without fighting, without yelling and teasing and calling each other names. The amount of times he’s come back to hear George screaming, begging for him to help him while Sapnap is chasing him way too closely with a weapon. The amount of times he’s had to physically pull them apart. The amount of times he’s had to act as the mediator between their bickering.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, true. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>At least they can agree on that.</p><p> </p><p>They piss him off. They get on every last one of his nerves. They’re almost <em> insufferable, </em> but even so, he misses that unique way in which they made him angry. He misses feeling that fond frustration bubble in his chest. Sapnap sucks, but he’s also hilarious, strong, kind, and loyal to a fault. He loves Sapnap like they’re brothers. George is a pussy, but his chill indifference is refreshing in a world full of tension and disputes. Everything had started with only George and himself. Just the two of them together.</p><p> </p><p>It’s no use. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are <em> you- </em> why is <em> he </em> of all people the one to fucking-”  Green and red, mismatched eyes bore into his skull. They should be creepy; their lop-sidedness, the way they always seem to have that slight glow to them, but there is never any true malicious intent behind them. Sadness, maybe, distrust and confusion, but always a hint of youthful innocence. Childish hope.</p><p> </p><p>A child who tried to bring people together, while he himself only managed to push them apart.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re not the same.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But you wish you were. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Trembling fingers lift to his hair, scratching through it harshly as he lets out a shuddering breath. What is the point in this? Is there even a point?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You missed him out, y’know. When you were naming who came to stop you. He was there. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s weird, hearing the voice refer to it’s usual owner in the third person. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You made eye contact. When you were being taken up the elevator with Sam, you were looking at him. He was looking at you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He stood right there, at the bottom, watching you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> aware, </em> thanks. I was <em> there. </em>” He doesn’t remember why he had looked to that lanky hybrid in particular as he was taken away, but he had. Even after the man below had looked away, he watched after him until the lift got him to the surface.</p><p> </p><p>In that moment, something about him felt like an old friend. He felt like he was going to miss him while he’s locked up. He felt like he had let down someone akin to a little brother, a pang of something gross flicking through him, as if he’d realised he’d been a bad role model.</p><p> </p><p>But they weren’t old friends. He didn’t have a little brother, he had no obligation to be a role model to anyone. This kid didn’t need nor want him as one. They hardly even knew each other, had barely even spoken.</p><p> </p><p>If that is true, though, how could he hear his voice so clearly? Why did he know exactly the inflections he uses, the way he forms his words? How is his brain able to perfectly replicate his tone?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You two are friends. Or something similar to that, in a way. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Literally how? I’ve never even really <em> spoken </em> to Ranboo.” </p><p> </p><p>Now, that name tastes different than he’d expected. He didn’t think it’d taste like anything, didn't think it would <em> feel </em> like anything. He’s probably only said it a handful of times in the past, and the only time he can remember is when he’d spat it in Tubbo’s direction at the crumbling community house. <em> ‘Ranboo is a traitor, one of your most trusted friends!’ </em>When he’d said it back then, it didn’t mean anything, just another word in a sentence.</p><p> </p><p>But this time it’s strange. It’s lukewarm, mild, distantly familiar. He’s tasted this before, long ago, but he can’t put his finger on where or why. He thinks of dark skies and pillars, of pale ground and tall sparks of light. It’s beautiful, gentle, serene. It’s disgusting.</p><p> </p><p>Hands in his hair fall to the book, lifting it up and holding it firmly, knuckles white. He feels himself getting wound up. </p><p> </p><p>“This is so fucking stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maybe. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah, <em> ‘maybe’, </em>” He mocks, grip tightening. Frustration runs through him, sharp and hot. “I get it. I messed up. Why are you- is he doing this to my head?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You aren’t as different as you think. Everyone is created from the same stardust. Maybe your atoms were on the same wavelength before this world was made. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A loud, echoing shout right from the chest. Fingers move to dig into the pages, ripping out the drawings and many other sheets of paper with them, crumpling them up in a strong fist. Why is he so angry? It doesn’t make sense. He hates that nothing makes any sense. Despite his usual strength, his arm shakes as he draws it back. Green and red flicker before him once more and he yells again, throwing the scrunched up paper in the direction of the lava wall. Stress weakens his toss, and it stops just short, rolling until it stills right on the edge of the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop being so <em> fucking </em>cryptic!” His throat hurts, his volume vibrating through him as it hits the walls of his cell. Everything aches.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck this, fuck all of it. How long has he been in here? Not long enough to go mad, surely. Not long enough to start talking to himself, to start <em> arguing </em> with himself. Definitely not long enough to conjure up someone else to fight with, someone else to force him to look inside himself and accept his reality.</p><p> </p><p>That’s what this is meant to be, right? Soul searching? Self reflection? An exercise to find what his own consciousness has tried to hide from him? Some freaky therapy session? Whatever it is, he’s sick of it. He doesn’t feel like any weight has been lifted, he doesn’t feel like he understands himself any better. All he feels is heat-wrapped confusion, furious upset. He’s left with more questions than answers, more self hatred than acceptance. </p><p> </p><p>He tosses the book, now missing quite a few pages, to the side, pulling his arms back around his knees again to huddle in on himself. He tucks his head down, forehead on his knees. Pain flares right behind his eyes and he shudders, a sick dizziness overcoming him. He’s so tired.</p><p> </p><p>“Just talk like a normal fucking person, none of that poetry bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>Quiet, just his ringing ears and heavy breathing. He hadn’t realised he was hyperventilating. His throat feels scratchy on every in breath, and his tongue feels numb. Staticky fingers, pins and needles in his arms, legs falling asleep. Exhausted. </p><p> </p><p>“Say something.”</p><p> </p><p>He shifts his weight to fall onto his side, curled up in a ball on the hard floor. It offers little relief for his body, but the cold ground feels soothing against his hot cheek. Emptiness claws at his stomach and lungs, and he can’t tell if it’s from hunger or not. </p><p> </p><p>The silence is so loud in his whirring head. </p><p> </p><p>Left alone after all of that, he feels like maybe he’s dying. Maybe he’s already died, and this is purgatory. It’s not hell, he’s felt much worse than this, but the way his brain feels like it’s made of jelly and his thoughts made of sludge, he can’t understand what’s happening. He’s not used to this, to feeling wrong. He’s not used to having to think in ways like this.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not crazy. He’s never been crazy. In a chest below an old, hidden base somewhere, lay tens of books full of thoughts. Pages upon pages of plans and motivations. Friends and enemies, names and descriptions, coordinates and cardinal directions. He knew what he was going to do and why. He knew how to get the job done. He knew what he wanted.</p><p> </p><p>But maybe he didn’t. He must’ve messed something up somewhere. </p><p> </p><p>What does anyone truly want? </p><p> </p><p>What did Wilbur want? A home, he had said, freedom and independence. But surely that wasn’t true, for when he finally got that, it wasn’t enough. He fought for it, cried for it, went mad for it, and when it all seemed like it was falling into place, fixing itself, he detonated it before the glue could dry. He’d died for it, stood atop the rubble, begging his own father to put him out of his misery.</p><p> </p><p>What did Schlatt want? Power? Authority? A little fun? Did anyone really know? He’d had it all the whole time, but still fell into misuse of harmful substances. He didn’t need to, to get his goal, but he had, and look where it got him. Six feet underground and miles high in the clouds.</p><p> </p><p>What did Tommy want? Two stupid little records, he’d have you believe. Songs that mean nothing to anyone, music so underwhelming that you’d laugh. The discs themselves, or what they represent. Sure, he had them now, but now what? He’d sacrificed everything for those discs, lost his home, friendships, his own lives, for what? What is his life going to be now that he’s won? Surely not the same fate as the two before him...right?</p><p> </p><p>What does <em> he </em>want? Control of what is rightfully his. Control of the server he created, of the land he’s found with his best friend, the seeds he’d sown himself. Authority to stop what he loved from changing, to keep the peace. The power to decide the fate of everyone around him, and the strength let that fate be one of unity.</p><p> </p><p>But what do you have left once you get what you want? What do you do when your life’s goal is completed? He’d never considered it before. The others that had gotten their wishes had paid the price of death for it. They’d driven themselves off of the deep end, into the freezing cold water of nothingness, desperately trying to reach the surface for some sort of relief. Failing, and letting themselves sink down to the bottom. Closing their eyes and allowing the sharks of insanity to eat them alive.</p><p> </p><p>“So you’re just gonna shut up now? Leave me hanging, like an asshole?”</p><p> </p><p>Of course there's no response. There wouldn’t be. </p><p> </p><p>“Come back.” </p><p> </p><p>It’s like it was never there to begin with.</p><p> </p><p>“Come <em> back. </em> This isn’t funny.”</p><p> </p><p>He knows it's useless. Who is he even asking? They weren’t real, just another part of his brain that decided to mess with him. He can’t stand it. At first he was pissed off at it, at its vague words and unclear motives, but now the stillness feels maddening. He’s truly alone in here. </p><p> </p><p>Is there a timeline in which he isn’t alone? Is there a timeline where he wins, or was this an inevitability? He thinks through his actions up until now. Surely there’s an alternate dimension out there where he’d shot Tubbo dead right there in that hallway. An alternate dimension where he’d been just a little less cocky and gotten the job done. One where Punz hadn’t been a dirty little traitor and fucked everything up for him. He’s strong, sure, and he could easily have taken on those two weak kids and Punz alone, but there was no point in trying when he was so outnumbered. </p><p> </p><p>Is there one where he isn’t the only one locked up here? A world where he’d not had to do this alone. In that world, in a maximum security cell just like the one he lays in right now, would be Sapnap. A world where they’d tried together to fix the mess. Maybe even George would be locked up, too. They’d not be able to see each other, and his friends would be bored out of their minds, but some selfish part of him wishes that it had gone that way in this reality.</p><p> </p><p>There’s probably a universe, somewhere so depressingly far, where none of this had ever happened. A universe where he and George had found this land, shared it with their closest friends, and that had been it. No annoying children, no overzealous leaders trying to set up divisions, no anarchism. Just… peace. Everything he’s always wanted.</p><p> </p><p>His eyelashes are wet and heavy as he tries to blink his vision into focus. The ground does nothing to cushion his head, but he pays no mind; it’s not like he has anything to use as a pillow anyway. What good would that comfort do him anyway? He looks toward the other end of the room, where he’d thrown his torn out pages. </p><p> </p><p>The lava crackles, spitting a little, and he watches as a drop of it flicks out and onto the paper ball. It’s only a tiny spark, but it catches on fire, sketches and words scribbled in destitute set alight by the wall that prevents him from leaving. White and black overtaken by orange and yellow, with green eyes watching it burn up until it fades to a dark sooty brown. If he touched it, his fingers would sting red from heat and come back stained grey from ash. He thinks distantly of coloured pens and crayons, of painting flowers in art classes and filling in rainbows on colouring sheets.</p><p> </p><p>He stretches out his sore limbs, rolling to lay on his back and covering his eyes with his forearm. This room is bright with the light, but there’s no life here. Just dark walls and obnoxious flames. He misses blue, pink, different shades of green and red. Even his dreams have started to fade into messes of navy and yellow. Those dreams beg for his spent mind to return to them. He lets those dull images take over.</p><p>
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</p><p>In an obsidian room, on the coast of the land, surrounded by water and made of mystery, a man drifts slowly into uneasy sleep. Inky walls surrounding him, closing him off from the outside world, leaving others to only speculate about what he is doing, if they cared enough. A room made for one man, barely furnished, smelling of fire and uncooked potatoes. A room that brings about only restlessness, unfulfilling slumber that leaves him feeling even more tired every time he wakes. </p><p> </p><p>Quiet surrounds him; there is no one here with him, just a broken body left with unstable dreams in a room he will never be able to escape.</p><p> </p><p>Hundreds of blocks away in a different obsidian room, hidden under sand and ocean, a man startles awake. From a nap or from blackout amnesia, he isn’t sure, but his eyes snap open and his body jolts as he comes to. Surrounded on all sides by purple and black, he is safe and alone, a place where no one will find him even if they tried. A room built to put him at ease but instead brings him more panic any time he is here. A room that smells of saltwater and pet fur. Water rushes outside and he looks around, at the jukebox in the ground, the signs on the walls, at Enderchest sleeping in the corner, the open book next to him.</p><p> </p><p>There is no one here with him, but sometimes it feels like there might as well be. The smiling face on the page has been quiet, and that brings him hope, but he knows deep down that it’s only a matter of time before his head gets noisy again. His mind is sure to fill with that voice, the voice of the one they’d worked so hard to defeat. The one they had succeeded in defeating, finally. He stares at it, unblinking, as if the two dots on the page for its eyes could see him. Maybe they can. He closes the book.</p><p> </p><p>He rises on lanky, shaking legs, and brushes himself off. He doesn’t know how long he’d been here, what day it is, if he’d done anything since the last moment he remembers, but this isn’t anything new. Standing up, his head almost touches the ceiling. He hates it here, doesn’t know why he always finds himself returning. He peers out of the hole in the wall in place of a real door, looking up at the sky. The sun is still out, but it seems like sunset will be upon them soon. Getting home before dark seems like a good idea.</p><p> </p><p>He ducks out of the box and back into the real world. No one hangs out around these parts anymore, not since doomsday. He walks, alone, back in the direction of home. Hopefully, this will be his last exit, the last time he will have to be here. Hopefully he will never need to return to this ugly, pain filled room. Hopefully he will never hear that voice again.</p><p> </p><p>Unlikely. Much like how one will never leave his room, the other will always return.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ty for reading!! this is super different than what i usually write and i lowkey hate it lol so any comments are appreciated!! &lt;3 sorry if there is mistakes, im bad at proofreading lol</p><p>another lil disclaimer: any bad things said about people in this fic are not things i believe!! they r jst words from c!dreams inner dialogue here about the other ppls characters too!! lol i felt bad being mean abt george and sapnap but it had to be done lol</p></blockquote></div></div>
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